Back To School...

This past weekend was extremely challenging.  No, I didn’t do my Olympic distance triathlon (that’s not until June), or run a marathon (that’s not until November).  I went back to school.

As many of you know, when I’m not working out, racing, or being a mom and wife, I work as a data analyst for the Episcopal Church (and yes, they know my religious preferences, and no, they don’t care).  That’s right, this nerd gets to spend her entire day crunching numbers and performing analyses.  And just when you think it couldn’t get any better – they also let me help to create and build wellness programs.  That’s right, I get to do my two favorite things all day long.

In the same way that my company would allow me to update any data certifications that I would need, they also agreed to let my co-worker, Stephanie, and I take a certified Personal Training course so that we can gain the knowledge we need to help build proper curriculum for our wellness programs and turn the Episcopal Church into the healthiest denomination in America.  So, Stephanie and I signed up for a 3 day course to learn how to become Certified Personal Trainers.

The course took place at Manhattan College and started on Friday afternoon.  Driving onto the Manhattan College campus, I really didn’t have any expectations.  Now, being a big fan of going to school, I was excited for the new textbooks and planned to arrive early so I could sit up front.  I even told myself to remind the teacher to give us homework if he forgot.  But other than that, I had no clue what I was getting myself into.

As soon as I entered class, I felt a few wrinkles pop up on my skin, and some of my hairs turn gray.  There were about 10 other students in the class, and they easily could have been my children they were so young.  They wore sweatpants with their school’s name emblazoned on them, flip flops and sunglasses indoors.  I quietly took my seat and hoped my bones didn’t creak as I sat in my chair.

The professor walked in and we started our first of what would be 3 eight hour days of class.  We started with the hard stuff – anatomy and physiology.  The professor discussed parts of the heart (who knew the heart had PARTS to it?), and the circulatory system and how arteries carry oxygenated blood away from the heart and to the body (or is it veins?  Crap).  He discussed bones, muscles, fibrals, femurs, fistuls (I actually thinking I’m making that last one up).  The more he talked, the less I understood, and the more I thought, “I don’t belong here.”

We had our first break, and Stephanie and I discussed if we should stick it out or run for the hills.  We decided to stay, that we made a commitment to our jobs, and besides, all the cool kids were staying.

After the first break, we started talking about some psychological stuff like the excuses people give to avoid exercise, and how to combat that.  Ah, I was finally in my element.  After that we got to figure out these cool equations where you first figure out a person’s maximum heart rate based on their age, then figure out what percent effort to get that person to in exercise in order to produce maximum benefit of the torture you’re going to inflict on them as trainers.  In other words – MATH!  We got to do math!  Once we married my two favorite loves of math and exercise, I no longer worried about the 19 year old boy who kept calling me “Lauren”, and the zumba addict girl who looked like she’d consumed about 40 cans of Red Bull.  Finally, day 1 ended, and as I exhaustedly walked to my car, I listened to all the kids make plans for which bars they were going to that night.

The next day I was more nervous.  We were told to dress in workout clothes, as we were going to learn some practical stuff.  We had to take a 3 minute step test, where we started with our resting heart beat, and then went up and down on an aerobic step for three minutes and in order to then calculate our recovery heart beat (what your heart rate is right after a little exercise).  First we calculated our resting heart rates.  The average resting heart rate for a woman my age is 74 – 78.  Mine was 60.  For three minutes I went up and down on my step, singing the song “Physical” by Olivia Newton John in my head, and then giggling when I realized that I was the only one in the class who would have a clue who she is.  Then we calculated our recovery rates, which should be about 15 beats higher than our resting rates if we don’t work out much.  Mine was 4.  The professor asked me my numbers, and when I told him, he looked at me with a look that was a mixture of respect and “didn’t she say she was a data analyst?  Can’t she add?”

After that, we had to do a pushup test, where you basically do as many pushups as you can.  Stephanie cheered me on as I banged out 45 pushups in a row.  Then we looked at our manuals to see the norm for my age range.  The “excellent” level was 22 – 25.

Day 3 was back to the classroom to learn to build exercise programs for clients.  Here we had case studies where we had to assess the health and fitness levels of our pretend clients, and then build exercise programs that would both benefit them and help them to reach their goals.  Again, I was a little intimidated.  I love to workout and know what works for me, but I wasn’t sure if I was qualified to help others.  But, as we waited for class to start, a woman, Katie, came up to me.  On the first day we introduced ourselves and said a few things about ourselves.  I mentioned I was a runner, and Katie had mentioned that she was about to run her first half marathon.  So, on day three she came over and asked me if I’d ever run a half marathon.  “Umm, yes,” I replied. “Seven.”  She also looked at me with a little respect (and no confusion this time), and asked those typical questions that any runner who is completely prepared physically but is logically scared s**tless would ask.  I answered questions and hopefully allayed her fears (and Katie, if you’re reading this, you are going to completely kill that half marathon!).

The professor had come in while Katie and I were talking, and he listened in on the conversation, and even asked me a few questions about my races.  That’s right: the Manhattan College Professor who had muddled my brain 2 days earlier talking about fibrals, femurs and fistuls (or maybe not that last one) was asking me questions about running and fitness.

Eventually the other students showed up (and Stephanie, may God bless you and your ability to find the nearest Starbuck’s for us that morning), and class started.  I looked around; they were still college aged kids, still loud for 9 AM and being hungover, and still wearing sweatpants and jeans hanging off their asses.  I am 43, haven’t been inside a college classroom in over a decade, but kept up with and surpassed them in terms of fitness ability.  I sat up straight in my chair and eagerly looked forward to the last day of class.